Snow Monkey
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Lovers in Melbourne

Lee Kofman

I think sometimes
we are angels.
We are black.
He wears a long dark coat
I - a leather jacket.
His steps are wide, sharp slicing -
like in a slaughter-house.
My steps are sharpening
with the femininity of heels.
Their stiletto tips are sketching
our filthy path.
Angels, who love filth.
An attempt for oxymoron.

Sometimes we are angels.
Abstract not-touching entities
one beside the other,
heavenís creatures.
They learn about us in the holy books
behind closed doors.
Never for women, nor for seculars.
Angels from the kabbalah - of those who had fallen.

He cuts. Cuts-Cuts-Cuts
into the road.
And Iím behind him,
our mapsí sketcher.
Different styles,
but our steps are matched.
They call us ‘Loversí,
but like on Chagallís paintings
we are not really part of the village,
always floating above, cut off.

We are lovers.
He buys me a glass of champagne
and fills it. He adds strawberries
which will sink under the bubbles
and winks wetly
at the beautiful boy behind the bar.
He says: a good champagne
you can always get in Melbourne.
He buys me dresses printed with roses
that others will caress.

We are lovers.
Lovers in Melbourne.
In front of small cafes
that serve decorated cakes
he points at the shop-windows
crammed with chocolate cascades
and pastries filled with red tired fruits.
Look, he says, how many temptations.